


He Who Fights Monsters

by CalamityBean



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, Characters who have never interacted in canon interacting, Gen, Hewlett being Hewlett, Humor, Memories of Valley Forge, Post-Season/Series 02, This is the most ridiculously dramatic thing I've ever written and I regret nothing, Washington being angsty, background Anna/Hewlett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityBean/pseuds/CalamityBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The name carries a shock of recognition and the insidious, bone-chilling cold of a place that refuses to leave him, and when the general first hears it, his head lifts; his pen, halfway through a word, stills.</p><p>“Hewlett?” he repeats, voice low. There is winter in the word: winter and the memory of a night that seems more like a dream, sometimes, when the general can even bear to recall it. A nightmare, tormented by indecision and fevered by regret. Even now as he casts his mind back, the stark reality of snow beneath his knees seems no more or less real than the sight of his brother standing hale and healthy in the woods of Valley Forge.</p><p>---</p><p>AKA, the unlikely and uncomfortable first meeting of General George Washington and Major Edmund Hewlett. Inspired by the events of S2E7, "Valley Forge."</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Who Fights Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> There's really no good excuse for this thing's existence, but [this tumblr post](http://calamity-bean.tumblr.com/post/140115052717/something-that-will-never-happen-in-turn-that-i) might help clarify matters a bit. I always feel weird asking for comments, but I admit I'm devastatingly curious about the response to this, so drop a line to restore my confidence / become my favorite person. <3

The name carries a shock of recognition and the insidious, bone-chilling cold of a place that refuses to leave him, and when the general first hears it, his head lifts; his pen, halfway through a word, stills.

“Hewlett?” he repeats, voice low. There is winter in the word: winter and the memory of a night that seems more like a dream, sometimes, when the general can even bear to recall it. A _nightmare_ , tormented by indecision and fevered by regret. Even now as he casts his mind back, the stark reality of snow beneath his knees seems no more or less real than the sight of his brother standing hale and healthy in the woods of Valley Forge.

“That’s right, sir.”

“The same Hewlett whom—”

“I believe so, sir. Major Edmund Hewlett, commander of the British garrison in Setauket, sir.” Paper crinkles as Billy Lee holds out the dispatch received only moments before. “The one you _pardoned_ … sir.”

Summer on Long Island, and the camp suffers a different hell now than in Pennsylvania. Sweat pools beneath his neck-stock, leaving behind salt that itches and chafes; the encampment hangs the inescapable stench of horses, of men, of manure, gunpowder, rotting food, urine, sweat, blood, bile, lye, thick enough to open one’s mouth and take a bite of. And the canvas of every tent hangs stiff and still in the nonexistent breeze. But ah, the glories of command—for in all this cesspool, is his tent not the grandest (and thus the best at trapping heat)? Is his uniform not of the most tight-woven linen, the sturdiest (and most suffocating) wool? And if the dispatch is already rather damp with sweat when he receives it, well; at least it is not _he_ who must play courier beneath a sun intent on boiling the very waters of the bay.

No; he must not— _cannot_ allow himself to dwell on such petty concerns. Not when so many others’ circumstances are vastly worth. With the glories, after all, come burdens, and it is indecision and regret that General Washington once again finds himself shouldering now as he smoothes flat the message and reads:

 

_Sir: It is my hope that I have the honour of addressing a gentleman after my own heart, and that, as such, the horror of further bloodshed may be avoided..._

 

_...will not yield to your lawless demands, but I have no wish of prolonging a conflict that you must see shall result in no victory to either of us, only the wanton destruction of property and lives. I therefore propose..._

 

_...on neutral ground: an exchange of prisoners and the negotiation of a truce. I pray to God we may conclude this affair as gentlemen of reason and law._

 

_Respectfully,_

_Maj. E. Hewlett_

 

This was only meant, thinks Washington, staring at the paper till the ink seems to run, to be a detour. A brief stopover on Long Island on his way to rendezvous with Varnum in Rhode Island. That he and his coterie should find the small outpost here embroiled in a senseless squabble with the local regulars had not been part of the plan, nor that said squabble should delay his journey so long … And now this.

 _A ghost_ , he thinks, thumb brushing over the signature. Lawrence’s smile; a night of dread and snow. _Yet another ghost, come back to haunt me for all my mistakes_.

Pen and paper alike dropping from his hand, Washington stands. “Draft a reply to Major Hewlett,” he instructs, and Billy Lee snaps to attention, stepping forward automatically to help him with his coat and hat. The summer is stifling still, but he could swear he feels a chill in the air even so. “Tell him that General Washington would be very pleased to meet.”

 

\---

 

Across the bay that glitters so innocently in the sun lies a camp manned only by the ghosts of those who died defending it. Tents collapsed beneath the snow, the canvas surely rotten by now and overgrown with moss. The bodies of patriots left to the mercy of crows and wild dogs. A wooden gaol consisting of one round cell, open to the elements. Open to the stars.

There is a camp, and though Washington has never set foot in it, Tallmadge’s description of it echoes in his mind as he waits in a field controlled neither by Continentals nor by the king, watching a distant group of riders approach.

His horse shifts its weight, paws the ground; in the corner of his eye, he can see Billy’s tossing its head to shake off flies. On either side glitter the bayonets of his soldiers standing stiff in their straight lines. There will be no bloodshed, he tells himself, and tries to shake the pall of dread that hangs thick as the moisture in the air. They will negotiate a truce, and he will be free to sail on to Rhode Island with no new ghosts clinging to his back.

But in this moment, at least, he can’t stop looking at the bay and thinking about the camp that lies on the other side, full of a dozen unburied patriots and one empty grave.

 _What sort of man_ , he wonders, and narrows his eyes against sun and sweat and suspicion alike at the Regulars approaching from the other side of the field.

_What sort of man cuts out another’s tongue and pins it beside his corpse?_

Setauket stands in the distance, a quaint white blur. The Regulars resolve into a handful of riders and an infantry force slightly smaller than his own. In the center: a figure on a chestnut horse, red and white uniform slashed by the harsh spill of a black cape over one shoulder.

_What sort of man is brutal enough to commit so horrific a murder…_

To Washington’s right, the lieutenant who got them all into this mess shifts uneasily on his horse. Nervous. Perhaps he is right to be; perhaps he knows of Hewlett firsthand what Washington can only infer.

_Cruel enough to pen a taunt in the dead man’s own blood…_

It is agony, this _waiting_ , watching the horses plod along at a walk to keep pace with the men. It is agony to wonder every moment whether more men, more horses, lurk in the woods on the edge of the field.

_Dishonorable enough that, even after being pardoned, he should return to the site of his imprisonment—return, surely, with his soldiers to the site of his imprisonment; skulk back into camp and slaughter every patriot he finds there, then leave their corpses to sleep beneath the snow…_

Close enough now to see the glint of Hewlett’s saber at his hip. Close enough to see that the Major rides like a man born to the saddle, his spine very straight, his left hand on the reins and his right hidden beneath the fall of that cape—

_And cunning enough to disguise his crimes by faking his own death, leaving behind a marker to his own supposed grave?_

—hidden beneath the cape because it bears a weapon? Hidden until he is close enough to shoot?

 _A man cunning enough to call a truce and intend a trap. A man dishonorable enough to lure his enemy with honeyed words and cruel enough to put the lives of innocent townsfolk in danger of further slaughter. Not a man at all—a monster_.

With a space of twenty paces between them, Hewlett draws to a halt. Beneath the shadow of his hat, the only features Washington can discern are cadaverous cheekbones and a mouth like the slash of a knife.

 _And I let him live_.

The ghosts lying unburied across the bay surround him. He can feel their empty eyes upon him—as empty as Hewlett’s shadowed gaze—as he nudges his horse forward a few steps. He can feel their blood slicking his hands as he dismounts and passes the reins to Billy Lee. And he carries the weight of all their lost years of life upon his shoulders with every step.

 _Was it worth it?_ they ask, and the hard knot in his heart is such that he no longer knows. He _knows_ that his mistakes are beyond counting; he knows that his regrets will never leave him. All he can do is bear them with his mouth set into a hard line and his eyes narrowed as he steps forward to face this monster of his own making.

Hewlett flicks his cape over his shoulder, making Washington’s shoulders tense before he sees that the major’s right hand is empty and that he’s simply passing the reins to his other hand. A soldier moves alongside the major’s horse to take the reins as Hewlett dismounts—

—and promptly stumbles, barely catching himself with a hand on the saddle before he can go down on his arse. Perhaps it’s merely the way he’s currently sprawled knock-kneed against the side of his horse, but Washington can’t help but think that the major looks much shorter on foot.

“Yes, yes, thank you, Corporal,” he can hear Hewlett mutter as the major waves off a soldier who’s stepped forward to offer assistance. It’s surreal—it’s utterly bizarre, really—but something about the way Hewlett gathers up himself (and as much of his dignity as he can salvage) puts Washington immediately in mind of the way Martha’s tomcat acts whenever it misses the landing on a pounce. That very same nose-in-the-air attitude that seems to say, _Of course I didn’t miss my landing, I meant to do that, thank you very much_. It's hardly the moment for such thoughts, of course, and yet—and yet, Hewlett straightens his coat and squares his shoulders with exaggerated aplomb, and Washington is torn between the urge to laugh and the impulse to scan the tree-line for an ambush on the chance that Hewlett is an even more accomplished actor than expected.

At last, Hewlett brushes dust from his cuff, then strides forward with a limp in every other step.

“General,” he says gravely, managing a wavering little bow. Washington hesitates before responding, honestly at a bit of a loss. For better or worse, before he can formulate reply, the major takes a deep breath and plows on:

“I must say, I—would never have imagined my town to be of such significance as to attract a personage of your, ah, _esteem_ , and, though I have no tolerance for your rebellion, I am—not insensible of the honor I have in meeting a gentleman of such great renown. _However_. With that said. If you are truly the man of honor your reputation claims, I am certain you will agree with me when I say that nothing in Setauket could be worth further endangering the lives of the innocents who reside there.”

In the breathless silence that follows, Washington finds he can do very little other than stare. Monsters, he knows, do not always come with claws and teeth. Monsters may wear a smile as easily as they wear the blood of their prey, and it’s a fool who trusts a smile, no matter how white and dull the teeth.

Major Edmund Hewlett does not smile. His mouth is still harsh, his cheekbones still better suited to a corpse, and his eyes are narrowed into dark slits that twist up his entire face into a scowl … Though perhaps that much is due more to the July sun that hangs so bright at Washington’s back. He is so pale it’s hard to imagine he spends much time in the field and so slight that he could likely be bested in battle by a particularly determined kitten. Yet he does not smile or pretend at friendship the way weak men do to lure stronger men into traps. He merely wears his dignity like armor as he stands with spine straight and chin lifted, and though his words are courteous enough, the tone behind them is iron.

And _earnest_. If Washington can believe that. If he can _afford_ to believe that.

The ghosts certainly do not.

“Major Hewlett.” _Discipline, George. Discipline is the soul of an army, and a disciplined soldier does not let down his guard … no matter how unassuming the foe_. He keeps his eyes narrow, his tone reserved and cold. “Your reputation precedes you as well.”

Hewlett blinks. “Indeed, sir?”

“I’m afraid so.” His gaze drifts toward the town in the distance, lingering on a white church upon a hill. “Are you a man of God, Major?”

The major looks affronted even to be asked. “Of course.”

“And are you sincere in your concern for the welfare of this town?”

“…This is my _home_ , sir. For the better part of two years. These people are my friends, my neighbors—my _responsibility_ , as I am sure you understand from your own command. Whatever your views on the king, sir, I believe this town safer under the crown’s authority than your anarchy.” Hewlett draws himself up in the self-important manner of a poet about to launch into a verse. “For is it not true, sir, that even the heavens themselves, the planets and this centre, observe degree, priority and place, insisture, course, proportion, season, form—”

“Office and custom, in all line of order,” Washington finishes in a murmur, the words as clear in his memory as on the page of the folio in his father’s library. Lawrence used to read to him from it, when George was a boy. “And therefore is the glorious planet Sol in noble eminence enthron'd and spher'd amidst the other.”

The words flow so naturally that Washington hardly realizes he’s spoken them until he notices Hewlett’s expression. When he does, however, he finds himself more disconcerted than ever.

Hewlett is smiling. No. _Beaming_. Not the savage grin of a predator; not the honeyed smirk of a sycophant attempting to win trust; but the wide and honest beam of a boy who’s just been praised in the schoolroom.

“ _Precisely!_ Yes, precisely, sir.” God in heaven—the major actually has to close his eyes and duck his head for a moment as he struggles to rein in his smile. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work, and he begins to speak with his hands.

“Forgive me, it’s—well, it’s a charming town, Setauket, the view of the constellations is _incredible_ this time of year in particular—but not precisely the Athens of the Americas, is it! And I so rarely have the pleasure of meeting anyone so familiar with the Bard. I actually had the honor of playing Ulysses in a production in my youth—only a small affair, a Christmas pageant put on by the children of the shire, but still, a bright memory all the same—and to this day, the play remains very dear to my…”

Perhaps it’s Washington’s expression, which he fears may have slipped somewhat from ‘icy reserve.’ Perhaps it’s the double columns of soldiers arrayed at each of their backs, trying not to fidget in their sweat-soaked uniforms as they eye each other across the lines. Though Washington can’t speak for his own men, Hewlett’s have begun trading long-suffering glances, and the instant Hewlett mentioned Ulysses, the major’s second-in-command closed his eyes with the weary embarrassment of a man long since resigned to his fate. He has yet to open them.

It’s _one_ of those things, most likely. In any case, _something_ sends reality snapping back into focus for the major. Hewlett’s teeth click as his jaw snaps shut, and his hands, frozen mid-gesture, hover for a moment before dropping to his side.

“ _Ah_. The point, sir.” Full of tomcat aloofness once again, Hewlett brushes nonexistent lint from his coat. “The _point_ , sir, is yes. I care very much for the welfare of this town. And although I am prepared to shed blood defending it, I would rather we do battle with the pen than the sword.”

The ghosts are watching, silent. Not only the ones from beyond the bay: all the corpses laid out at his back, all the lives lost in his wake, the shade of every man, woman, and child who might yet live if only he had been braver, if only he had been wiser, if only he had chosen _differently_. They pave a bloody road all the way to Ohio and the Seven Years’ War.

Washington can sense their gaze but not their intentions as, shoulders slumped and weary, he takes in the sight of this … This _man_. Just a _man_ , really. Odd and fastidious and so thoroughly unsuited to war in every way Washington can discern. The ghosts offer no input as he struggles to reconcile severed tongues and blood in the snow with Christmas pageants and starlight and Shakespeare.

At last, he slowly shakes his head.

“…I regret that I cannot, in good conscience, return the pleasure of meeting you, sir.” The way Hewlett’s expression flickers at the heaviness in his voice is almost enough to inspire guilt. “The reports of your actions this past winter put us far beyond that. But if you truly wish for peace, I am willing to put that aside long enough to settle this dispute.”

Hewlett’s eyebrows twitch, then furrow. A sharp little shake of the head, just like Billy’s horse shooing flies. “Forgive me, sir, pardon, but—my actions?”

Washington is too weary even to scowl. “I do not enjoy games, sir. For the sake of the civilians in your town, I am willing to speak with you as a gentleman, but do not imagine for one moment that I have forgotten the murder of Captain McCarrey—or the singular viciousness with which you carried it out.”

For a moment, there is utter, paralyzing silence.

“… _I_ carried out,” Hewlett repeats, deadpan. His expression is impossible to read.

“There is no sense in demurring, sir. I signed your pardon myself.”

“…My _pardon_.”

“I believe in mercy, when the opportunity presents. I hope you will not make me regret that decision.”

Major Edmund Hewlett closes his eyes. They flutter shut in the same moment his hands curl into fists and his jaw begins to work from side to side, his brow deeply furrowed. His movements are slow and deliberate.

“Murder. Mutilation. You insult me with these, these unfounded accusations, sir.” His fists tremble at his side. His knuckles show white. “And then to insinuate … to imply that I ought to be _grateful_ for a pardon I never … A pardon I neither received nor merited, having _done nothing wrong_ … And you, you, _sir_ , a _gentleman_ such as _you_ has the _temerity_ , the _bloody nerve_ —!”

And General George Washington, commander-in-chief of the Continental Army, veteran of two wars and steward of ten thousand ghosts, stumbles backward in sheer surprise as Hewlett throws his hat to the ground and shouts, “ _HOW VERY DARE YOU, SIR!”_

 

\---

 

“Well, lads, that’s settled it,” intones the ensign with the red hair, all mock sobriety as he holds court with three of his fellow soldiers. The young regulars crowd a small table in the corner of Strong Manor, their faces flushed, their spirits as bright as the lanterns strewn around the tavern to chase off the gloom outside, and each deeper in his cups than the last. “Bugger Clinton over in York City. Bugger both the brothers Howe and all their ships and guns and horses. None of _them_ ever got away with scoldin’ Washington hisself like a schoolboy caught sleepin’ in class!”

“Didja see the general’s face?” laughs another, his elbows dropping onto the table as he leans forward, eagerly illustrating the scene with waves of his hands. “Schoolboy nothin’! He looked like some unlucky bastard gettin’ nagged by his old lady, that’s what! Thought he was like to make a run for it, poor sod. I never woulda thought Hewlett even knew half those words he was yellin’.”

“I liked when he took his boot off an’ made ol’ George look at his toes. What’s left of his toes, I mean.”

“I liked when he threw the boot.”

“Hafta hand it to Hewlett, boys. Wouldna guessed it, but there you have it—the man’s got stones.”

“Weightier ones than Washington, at least,” quips the first, then gives a startled cry as a hand swoops down and jerks away his full tankard of ale.

“You’d best keep thoughts of the major’s stones to yourselves,” orders the tavern maid, expression humorless and voice cool. “Though I’m certain he’d be flattered to know you cared.” Balancing her pitcher on one hip, Mrs. Strong surveys them all with a withering gaze. “The same for that business with the truce. I’ll not have anyone mocking Hewlett in this house.”

“Oy! My ale!”

A glance at the tankard in her hand. Then she tips back her head and drains the entire thing before plunking the empty cup back down onto the table in front of him and striding away.

“Poxy bitch,” mutters one, predictably, once her back is turned. Nothing she hasn’t heard before and won’t hear a hundred times again. But they make no more japes about Edmund, and that’s all that matters. God knows that what happened that afternoon will be the talk of the town for years to come, but in here, at least, she doesn’t have to allow a single word against him.

She’ll get the full story later, she’s sure. From Edmund, replete with all the dramatic hand-waving and affronted exclamations she could possibly desire. And she can laugh on her own terms, then, and soothe his wounded pride, and tease him fondly for months to come about the time her major made George Washington himself quake in his boots.

**Author's Note:**

> \-- Washington quotes himself from his 1759 Letter of Instructions to the Captains of the Virginia Regiments: "Discipline is the soul of an army. It makes small numbers formidable; procures success to the weak, and esteem to all."
> 
> \-- Hewlett begins, and Washington completes, a bit of Ulysses's speech from Act 1, Scene 3 of _Troilus and Cressida_ , which I couldn't resist because it has all the things Hew loves best: astronomy, orderliness, and total nerd cred.
> 
> \-- There's absolutely no good reason that I know of for GWash to be in this part of the country at this part of the war, but since I needed to get him near Hewlett anyway, I selfishly couldn't resist throwing in a little shout-out to my great-great-god-knows-how-many-greats-uncle General James Mitchell Varnum, who in August of 1778 would participate in the Battle of Rhode Island. In addition to having a pretty decent career in his own right, Varnum hung out with a lot of the who's who of the Revolution, including Washington, Greene, Rochambeau, and the Marquis de Lafayette. Lafayette gave him a cute little punch bowl once, which I like to think means they totally partied and got wasted together. You can swing by his house (a museum now) if you're ever in RI.
> 
> \-- I wasted a whole day writing this and I can't bring myself to regret it.


End file.
